"I am not a fool to believe that those savages had been alone in this. For there were other forces at play."

It was time. The call had come not even a few minutes ago, the ship's scout spotting the island on the distant horizon. James watched the sea ahead, hand gripping the hilt of his side sword. It felt foreign to him despite the training he had undergone with it. It felt so off to carry this new blade, even though it was practically the same as his old one, only without the signifying rune that the previous owner had scribed onto it.

'Havor. His name was Havor.'

James didn't know why he needed to remind himself of the dead marauder. The man who once tried to end him for simply defending Yorktown. It had been his sword that nearly killed James in the first place, driven into his chest by Deimos himself.

'Havor was just a pawn. Someone who wasn't given much of a choice,' Faust said. 'Like Helen. If it had been her instead, things would have probably turned out the same. One person, an ally. Another, killed and forgotten."

A burning corpse, killed in self-defense. His sword, which was once carried by the man who had led to his demise. Now that sword was broken in half, left in a longship that was at the bottom of the sea. Doomed to be forgotten, like the man who once owned it.

'Unless I force myself to remember,' James thought as he stood up. He drew his sword, which glinted in the soft morning light. With his other hand, he brought out his belt dagger. With a careful motion, he carved a sigil within the guard of his new weapon. It was a crude attempt at remaking the original carving, but James figured that it'd be better than nothing.

"That symbol means something?" Naomi asked from behind. James turned to the other Outlander, who was tightening the straps on her armor. The armor itself was clearly foreign to Valenfrost, reminding James of something from feudal Japan.

"It's from another time," James said as he sheathed the weapon, his hands moving to sling the longsword over his shoulder. "How long do you suppose until we get to the shore?"

"An hour at least," Naomi said. "Lukas will send out a probing force first, though. Give us more time to prepare."

"I've had long enough to prepare," James muttered. "Tell him that I'm going in with the first wave."

Naomi stopped in place, her head turning to him with a glare. "First of all, I'm not his advisor. Second, don't be an idiot. We have no idea if they'll be expecting us or if they've prepared. We don't even know how many defenders are on that island."

"I'm not planning on fighting the defenders," James said as he grabbed his helmet, the chainmail clinking as he raised it.

"You…" Naomi trailed off, her forehead creasing. "You're insane."

"The minute he learns about our little raid, he's going to try to escape," James stated as he placed the helm upon his head. "I'm not going to give him the chance."

Naomi just watched him, hesitance on her face as she turned to watch the rest of the longship's occupants. Everyone else didn't seem to notice their conversation, as they were all busy preparing for the upcoming battle. Lukas was even commanding one of the nearby longships, telling its captain what to expect. After a minute of examining everyone, Naomi turned back to James.

"How sure are you?" Naomi asked.

"Depends," James said with a shrug. "Do you want to risk the chance he runs?"

Naomi stared at him for a moment before she let out a small sigh. "I have a better idea, one that won't have us arguing with Lukas for half the day."

James gave her a mirthless smile as he tightened the straps on his helm, the cool steel feeling good against his clammy skin. He could feel his heart thump once again, like a rhythmic drum that prepared for battle. He willed himself to keep calm as he turned to the island ahead.

"What's the plan, then?" he asked.

"Just a little dark magic," Naomi answered. "Nothing too serious."

"That's reassuring," James muttered. Yet deep inside, he could feel the faintest feeling of excitement spark within.

Finn could feel the winds getting stronger, snow flying past him in a rush. He could barely see as he made his way up the rising path, the town of Iree not far behind. Up ahead was the Hawk Clan's small Keep, where Jarl Falk rested. That Keep was probably the most solid building on this forsaken island, as Iree was more of a shanty village rather than a proper town.

Finn still wasn't sure why Jarl Falk wanted to settle here, especially when the man's hometown of Dorstead was a much more fortified position. Cockiness could have something to do with that, given that they had just killed off that Outlander, James. Ivan had perhaps thought himself to be safe. Still, it didn't really explain much.

Regardless, the Jarl was adamant about staying here, at least until they could figure out what to do with Frostbite. The ship itself was probably worth more than the Hawk Clan's entire coffers. Finding a buyer would certainly elevate their status in the south. That is if they find someone willing to buy it.

'Maybe it would be better to find a Wizard able to use it. Who knows the applications that it could be used for…'

Finn's thoughts were cut short not long after. He stopped midway through his short trek, frowning as he caught sight of the Keep ahead. The guards that were supposed to be stationed there were no longer around. In fact, there didn't seem to be anyone outside of the Keep. Could it be that they had abandoned their posts?

'No,' Finn concluded. 'It is possible that they had decided to go inside to avoid the harsh winds.'

He didn't exactly blame them. The Frost's chill, combined with these winds, cut through his padded tunic and cloak like an icy knife. It didn't seem to matter how many layers he put on since the cold seemed to seep past it all.

Even now, Finn couldn't feel his toes, his fingers already going numb despite the heavy gloves he had on. With a shiver, the blond man hurried to the Keep's entrance. Wind and sleet peppered him like miniature arrows, threatening to bring him down as he climbed the steep gravel path. In the end, Finn made it safely.

Only once did he close the doors to the outside world did he notice the heavy scent of rot in the air. Finn gagged at the smell, his hand instantly moving to cover his face. It was as if there was a withering corpse right next to him, its stench burning his nostrils.

Finn noted how the torchlight had dimmed in the hallway that led into the rest of the Keep, their flame flickering weakly against the darkness. Mouth and nose covered, Finn took tepid steps toward the barely lit hallway, his eyes searching for any sign of the guards.

No luck; the lack of light was cumbersome, and the blond man's eyes were still adjusting. He couldn't even see five paces ahead of him in this cursed darkness. Finn wanted to call out for the men but felt his throat go dry at the thought. For some reason, his instincts didn't like the idea of him shouting into the dark.

Instead, Finn decided to just head toward the Keep's main hall, where Ivan Falk usually brooded. The old Jarl had been spending more time there than in his own quarters, mumbling orders and asking for updates from Eilif. Finn didn't want to assume the worst from his own Jarl, but he worried.

Ivan had been… off lately. He mumbled to himself more and sometimes even got into full-on conversations with no one in particular. Finn had once thought it to be nothing more than exhaustion but felt more and more like the man was losing it.

Random shouting, inexplicable cursing, and even some bouts of physical violence against any who tried to calm him. Finn thought back to the one guard who tried to calm the old Jarl. He was still in the infirmary in Iree, nursing a stab wound that missed his ribs. They had to get new guards after that.

Finn found himself stumbling over something as he reached the main hall's entrance, his thoughts cutting off. He looked down at the obstacle, squinting as he tried to figure out what it was that caught his foot.

"Finn…? Is that you?" a voice croaked from within the main room. Finn froze, not recognizing the voice at first. Then he turned and saw him. Jarl Ivan's silhouette, standing perfectly still at the edge of the flickering torchlight. He was slightly hunched, the left side of his body bent toward the ground at an awkward angle. His eyes, or where Finn assumed his eyes were, stared out toward the main hall's entrance.

"Jarl Falk?" Finn said slowly, eyes focusing. The silhouette of the old man adjusted sharply at the sound of his name, head turning as he began to pace. Finn stared at Ivan, who began to mutter. It almost sounded like…

"He's here… He's here, and he's going to kill me. I… We can sense it… He is close, oh so very close…"

"Are you…?" Finn began before Ivan came to a sudden stop, head jerking unnaturally toward him. The younger man's eyes adjusted then and he could see Ivan's rabid expression in the dim light. His teeth were clenched, his forehead slick with sweat despite the temperature, and his eyes were wide with an animalistic fear.

"Holter is here," he whispered, feet shuffling as he neared Finn. "He is close. It can smell him."

"Jarl Falk…" Finn started, instinctively taking a step back. "What are you talking about? Holter is dead. Eilif killed him."

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At the sound of the immortal's name, Ivan froze, and his mouth opened to a silent scream. He recoiled, right hand grabbing his other arm. Finally, his voice came out in a shrill. "Do not speak that abomination's name!"

Ivan sulked forward, wild eyes locking onto Finn as he stepped closer. The torchlight revealed gnashed teeth alongside small bits of something glittering alongside his neck. He stumbled a bit in his walk, spittle flying from his mouth as he began to rant once more.

"Holter… He is here. He is going to kill me… Kill me," Ivan rambled. He stopped, the manic glint in his eyes fading away for a moment. "No… No, I don't… I don't want to."

"My Jarl?" Finn asked, tense as he contemplated on whether to help the older man or to run for help.

Ivan grabbed at his head, shuddering as he shied away. Finn stepped closer, hands slowly reaching out. The Jarl went still not even a second after, expression unreadable in the shadows of the dwindling torches. Finn stared at the older man, freezing for a moment.

"Ivan?" Finn asked, watching as the Jarl stood up straight. He shuffled closer to him, wary. "Are you alright?"

"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered just as Finn reached him. Before the young man could say or do anything, something sharp and unbelievably cold was jammed into his torso. Finn gasped at the sudden pain, his body seizing as a multitude of emotions and feelings filled his chest. He looked down. Ivan had stabbed him right below the ribs with what looked to be a silver dagger.

"My Jarl?" Finn croaked, stunned. Ivan said nothing as he rammed the rest of the blade into the flesh. Warm blood spilled from the open wound, soaking the man's tunic and faceting onto the carpet. Finn stumbled as he tried to get away, only for Ivan to grab him by the shoulder, his grip like a vise. The old Jarl was silent as he wrenched the dagger out, only to stab Finn once more. He repeated the motions, every thrust of the blade tearing the belly open.

After what seemed like an eternity of pain, Ivan shoved Finn away in a desperate movement, his breathing heavy with exertion. The dying man stumbled away, still in shock, as he tripped over the obstacle from before. He landed on the ground in a heap, his lips tasting iron as he tried to form words.

"Wh…Why?" was all Finn could manage as he tried to crawl. He stopped when he saw what had tripped him. It was one of the missing guards, his face pale from the loss of blood. He, too, had that same stab wound in the gut.

"I didn't want to do this," Ivan said shakily, almost as if he was on the edge of tears. "I really didn't. But I must. If only to ensure my survival."

Finn just stared at the Jarl, who stood above the dying man with a mixture of what looked like grief and… happiness?

'You're insane. You've lost it,' were words he wanted to yell. Yet he couldn't.

Instead, Finn could only lay there, soaked in a pool of crimson. He bled out quickly, his body growing colder as the darkness grew more apparent. Before the end could claim him, however, a voice echoed within his mind, distant but ever-growing by the second.

It almost sounded like…

Consume. KILL.

Finn gasped as a sudden cold overtook him, a burning sensation like fire spreading throughout his open guts. He screamed, his lungs growing hoarse as the foreign voice grew to an overbearing volume. Then they stopped, and Finn was left with a brief moment of respite. It didn't last long, however, as the voice returned in a soft-spoken manner.

Interesting, it spoke, a sense of dread accompanying its words. Finn could swear that the thing was smiling.

I like you.

The town of Iree was usually quiet during the frigid season of Frost, its docks mostly bare of any ships and boats. Most of the residents here were more or less focused on surviving the frigid cold, which was just as deadly as a knife to the belly. Perhaps even more so, considering the gusts that seemed to pick up as the day grew.

It was because of these harsh winds that only two of the soldiers stationed there noticed the approaching longships. Even then, through the flurry of snow and the lack of sunlight, they barely paid it any mind. If anything, they expected these ships, albeit a little sooner than they'd initially thought. One even had the presence of mind to voice his surprise to his companion.

"That's the battalion that Jarl Falk sent out, no?"

The other man squinted at the approaching fleet, which roughly reassembled the group of ships that had left for Yorktown weeks ago.

"Uhhhh, yeah. I suppose so."

"Is it me, or are there more ships than last time?"

The second man shrugged at that. He didn't exactly remember how many vessels were sent out.

"Probably," he answered. "Nothing bad about that, though. More ships probably mean that the raid went better than expected."

His friend rubbed his chin in thought for a moment. "Mmmm, makes sense."

Both just stood there on guard, watching the approaching fleet as the winds grew more frantic. None seemed to notice the painted sigil of a boar upon the lead vessel or that something glowing a mysterious blue was shot out into the island's dense forest.

James panted as the snow was cleared away from the spot he landed in. His body grew to an uncomfortable warmth, sweat already beginning to form underneath his layers despite the cold. Naomi staggered right next to him, her breath coming out in a puff of mist.

"Yeah," she muttered. "It isn't easy to get used to."

James looked to the other Outlander, who tightened the wrappings around her left eye. Once it was covered, she leaned down next to him to grab the arrow they had used as an anchor. James realized only then that he was still holding onto the wooden projectile, its purple runic symbols still smoldering.

He let go of the thing, wiping his hand as if it would get rid of the dark emanations that lingered from the spell.

"So that's how you got away on Yorktown," James said, almost to himself. "You can teleport with that… affliction of yours."

"You can call it what it is," Naomi huffed, her hand breaking the arrow with ease. The runes fizzled out, its magic spent. "I'm not ashamed. And it's not teleporting. At least, not exactly."

"You can move from one place to another almost instantly," James argued. "That's teleporting, regardless, even if you need an anchor to do so."

"It works more like a summoning spell than anything," Naomi said. "Once you get into its intricacies."

James just shrugged at that, not wanting to get into a discussion about what constituted teleportation. He looked at his surroundings, trying to pinpoint where exactly Naomi had taken them. She had one of the archers on Lukas' ship loose the projectile into the island—without the Jarl's knowledge—and had used her Beholder eye's unique ability to transport them.

It still unnerved him to no end that Naomi was in possession of such a dangerous artifact, the demonic eye responsible for much of James' own suffering. He held back a shiver at the memory of Kira's psychotic gaze, her invisible blades nearly killing him back on that ship.

The pain of those strange slashes was still seared into his mind.

"We move northwest," Naomi's voice snapped James out of his thoughts. "The longhouse should be situated on the island's highest point."

"What makes you so sure?" James asked.

"Basic knowledge," Naomi said. "Jarls like to situate themselves on the high ground. Well, most of them." She eyed him with a knowing look.

James just grunted and stood up from his resting position. He slung his longsword's sheath over his shoulder, checked his belt and potions, and headed off in the direction Naomi suggested.

Finn felt nothing but pain, his skin burning as if alight with flames. Darkness surrounded the suffering man, who writhed around in the spot where Ivan had left him.

'I'm in Helheim,' he reasoned as the scent of rot permeated his senses. 'I'm paying for my sins, aren't I? In Dremor's eternal halls.'

Among the agony, the pain of starvation began to rear its ugly head within Finn. Desperate hunger fought to overtake his mind, blinding as it was. He tried to fight the urge, to find some way to resist. Yet the hunger was persistent, and Finn was horrified to find himself salivating at the thought of the dead man he had seen earlier.

Eat, a voice, faint as a whisper, echoed within Finn's mind. You must replenish your strength.

"What… What are you?" Finn croaked out, his throat feeling as if sand coated it.

I am your God, the voice rumbled, its words reverberating throughout the man's body. And you are my latest apostle.

"I… I do not serve any god," Finn spat, his sleeve moving to wipe the spittle from his lips.

Oh, you misunderstand me, 'God' said. I only exist to serve you, my dearest follower.

"Follower?" Felix asked, confusion overtaking him. "I don't even know what you are."

Like I've told you, I am God. A force of nature that doesn't bend for the rules your so-called deities love to follow.

The voice was smooth now, rubbing against the listening man's ears like a lover's caress.

"You serve me?" Finn asked softly after a moment of contemplative silence. During that time, the hunger within numbed, and the pain was bearable, if only for a moment.

I serve all who choose to accept me, God whispered. I give them what they desire most. Strength. Power. Revenge.

"What can you offer me?" Finn breathed out.

I offer opportunity, God answered. James Holter.

With just the sound of that name, voices once dulled now ran rampant within Finn's mind. He let out a silent scream of agony, his hands moving to grip his head. He stopped when his left hand, the mangled one, glinted in the dim light. Finn stared at the bandages that supposedly covered the wound.

Crystals grew out of the gauze-like rogue stalagmites, their shine almost like a soft glow. Finn ignored the multitude of voices that bounced around inside his head. He just focused on his hand. With a shaking motion, he began to tear the gauze off.

James Holter lives, God continued, ignoring Finn's fixation on the crystals. And he is coming here. I offer you the chance to square your differences with him. Pay him back for what he did to you.

Finn didn't say anything as he stared at the amalgamation of crystal and black skin that was his left hand. It resembled more like a flanged macehead, the bluish glow from within pulsing like a heartbeat.

I offer strength, God said. I offer the opportunity for you to kill the Outlander. Once and for all. Do you accept?

Finn swallowed despite his rough throat and bloated tongue. He thought of James, of the bastard Outlander. The man who thought himself a hero of all things. Someone who could challenge the old ways and ancient traditions. Holter, the man who was coming to kill him.

Finn smashed his malformed fist into the floorboards, which snapped underneath his great strength.

"I... accept."

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